We walk into the glen,
not knowing how far
The path is good, but in the air are drops of rain,
which we mistake for midges
Nothing bites:
the hills of Harris rise up
on both sides, and we look hard at them,
hoping for the holiness
of golden eagles
set apart,
sanctified,
somehow free
We cross the bridge and sit in the hide,
waiting patiently, which is hard for us
We prefer highlights
and instant replay, but
the sky is empty
In the end we head back to the road:
just after the bridge,
joking about the lack of penguins, we see
sudden shapes in the sky
and rush to focus
There is no doubt:
three eagles play
in the unreachable air
Glued to the ground,
we stand in awe,
grateful for this grace,
this unearned revelation.
this resurrection of our hopes,
amazed that there was no prayer involved at all,
just jokes about penguins
Of course, jokes about penguins
are prayers too
This poem was written after a holiday in the Outer Hebrides, and a glimpse of golden eagles after we had almost given up looking. Of course, you never give up looking. Do you?